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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578914">The Last of Us: Home Again</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/myawritesthings/pseuds/myawritesthings'>myawritesthings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last of Us (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Break Up, Child Neglect, Courtroom Drama, Divorce, Game: The Last of Us Part II, Gen, Good Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by The Last of Us (Video Games), Minor Character Death, POV Joel (The Last of Us), Parent Joel (The Last of Us), Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Protective Joel (The Last of Us), Single Parents, The Last of Us Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:42:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29578914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/myawritesthings/pseuds/myawritesthings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A prologue cutscenes and gameplay written to fit in-universe to give Joel &amp; Sarah their backstory.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ellie &amp; Joel (The Last of Us), Joel &amp; Sarah (The Last of Us), Joel &amp; Tommy (The Last of Us), Joel (The Last of Us)/Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hometown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is mostly flashbacks to fill in the missing pieces</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's a beautiful September day in Austin, Texas. It's Joel's birthday but he ain't got much time for celebrating. Work is hard and weird today. Written like a game.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warnings: added to tags for future content and updated every time something new pops up in a chapter. Please read carefully.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <span>Cut Scene: Arrival</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>An army truck drives cautiously down an old-town side street. It’s not a particularly good-looking area. Sort of run down, shy of the bedazzle of the real downtown, with the working-class skyscrapers and windows like mirrors that shine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mud puddles flooding driveways leading up to ranches and mobile homes. Wide intersections across the 183 Highway are lined with stops for semi-trucks, gas stations, and farmer’s fields. There’s not a lot of need for big construction projects–hence why its a god-damn miracle the Miller Family Company was hired at all. Times are tough. Nobody wants big houses anymore. There’s bigger two-stories on the outskirts, none of ‘em built any later than 1980. Sometimes, they at least have a detached garage, and cars that aren’t rotting and rusting away in the yard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Compact cars on their way to their 9-5 rush by on a moderately busy road, some pulling aside to make space, confused about the army truck presence, unaware of protocol. You move aside for ambulances and police, right? What about a massive army truck? It’s slightly out of place, and rather old-fashioned, with some sort of plastic-canvas tarp over the back, hiding whatever it’s transporting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A second one appears in traffic, a few cars behind. Then a third. A fourth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dozens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s no parade. At least not the kind that puts on a show. The military has arrived in Austin, Texas. And they’re bein’ awfully quiet about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>SEPTEMBER 26th 2013</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sunshine slides through the turning leaves, yellowing and curling while wind rattles the branches. Joel Miller’s profile appears beneath them, his jaw clenching slightly as he stands in the dappled shadows. He lifts a hand to shield his eyes, looking at the construction site before him.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>Gameplay: Construction Site</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Leaving the safety of the shade, Joel trudges forward with the walk of a man dreading a conversation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mornin’!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Howdy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mornin’, boss.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Workers in hardhats greet him cheerily, gloved hands held briefly to foreheads in two-fingered salutes or open-palmed waves. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Didja see all those army trucks rollin’ in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I hear they’re deliverin’ a round of experimental vaccines up at the hospital.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No kiddin?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel overhears a variety of his worker’s gossip as he walks carefully through where the planks are stacked for hauling on the rapidly appearing second-floor. He pauses for a moment where a hat and gloves are sitting on a workbench set up, tugging the gloves on and making sure the hat stays on. Safety first. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t it make you sorta nervous?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, y’know. Like a pandemic. More and more people are gettin’ sick. The numbers spiked like crazy since yesterday.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a special news bulletin and everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I musta missed that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ever since the FDA announced the contaminated crops and all the brands associated with it yesterday mornin’, more an’ more have turned up at the hospitals sick. They’re starting to get too full. All within 24 hours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. That’s awful. Good thing I eat only organic shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Betchyer grateful for those allergens now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure am. What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My favorite bean brand was on the list of contaminants, but I ain’t opened a can in three weeks. I’m fucking lucky.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel’s interest is piqued. He turns to the two workers exchanging information. “Which brands used the contaminated crops?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey boss. Sorry, I don’t got the names–I bought a paper this mornin’, though. You’re welcome to it. It’s upstairs next to my lunchbox. The updated list is on the front page. Can’t miss it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate that. Is Tommy in yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been and gone already. Got into a little bit of a beef with the contractor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit. What happened this time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothin’ too bad. Just exchanged some heated words on the timing. Not rushing the project, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I know.” Joel smiles resignedly. “Thanks again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t mention it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel continues to step around tall stacks of lumber, eyeing the way the walls are beginning to form, plywood sheets between the beams and the carefully placed lines for the electricity and the pipes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Joel, can you give us a hand with this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel picks up a little speed, trotting beside one of his workers and cupping his gloves hands beneath the rough edge of a particularly wide and cumbersome plywood square. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On three. One, two, three!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Joel and one worker on this side, and two workers on the other, they’re able to lift with effort, tip, and lean it upright against the skeleton of the outside wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll do ‘er! Didja hear from Tommy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, uh… I heard </span>
  <em>
    <span>of </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Contractor was down here at the ass-crack of dawn, sipping coffee and asking us if we were </span>
  <em>
    <span>on schedule. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Then he was asking us to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>ahead </span>
  </em>
  <span>of schedule. Tommy got sorta in his face and told him we was workin’ as fast as we could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like Tommy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t wana lose this contract, Joel. I got kids.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand. I’ll talk to him. He’ll keep his cool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Thanks.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The workers resume their benign chatter, and Joel takes a look at the unfinished second floor. They hadn’t quite finished the stairs yet, and what existed wasn’t braced thoroughly enough for a man of Joel’s weight and height. But needing to get upstairs for that newspaper means finding other means, which ain’t hard in a construction zone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With some perusing around the outer edge of the site, Joel recovers the ladder he needs. He walks it carefully up to the skeleton of the stairwell, leans it against the side, and walks hand-over-hand to the second floor. The worker he’d spoken to had left his jacket hanging on an exposed nail, beside a bashed-in lunch box with a velociraptor on the cover. Folded beneath it is today’s newspaper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel takes a long look at the cover, quelling his own nervousness as he pursues the list of contaminated brands. He flips the paper over, squinting at the small print. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. Good thing I don’t feed Sarah any of that shit.” He folds the paper into thirds and tucks it into the back pocket of his Levis jeans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Heya. Tommy comin’ back today?” calls Pete. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s got the lumber pick-up about six hours away. He won’t be back on site again today,” Joel explains. He leans down and lifts a few stray pieces of lumber blocks, chucking them off the side of the exposed opening to the scrap pile below. “Heads up,” he calls out, even though there’s no one in the immediate visibility below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When he stopped in to grab the order forms earlier, he got into a bit of a spat with the contractor,” Pete says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I heard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Contractor had it comin’. He was walkin’ around askin’ us to skip breaks and lunches to get shit done faster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have a chat with Tommy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“AND he was walkin’ around without any safety equipment on at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. He signed the release forms, at least. We ain’t responsible if he kills himself during an unauthorized visit to the site.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel pauses and looks out the frame of a window. Nice day out. Sunshine and bright, fluffy white clouds. An unusual chill in the air, for Texas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>More army trucks roll by on the street below. The sign for the hospital glimmers on the side of the building in the distance, maybe a mile or two away. Poor bastards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s Jimmy at?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Called in with food poisoning. Don’t worry, it ain’t the virus. He assures me he had some expired fishsticks and it did ‘im in. Kevin’s covering.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel goes back down the ladder, leaving it in place for Pete. Whoever moved it to begin with hadn’t properly checked to see if anyone was up there. He’d bring it up at the next staff meeting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey Joel–we got some sorta power outage. Blew a fuse or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been happenin’ off an’ on. The city’s been briefly shutting down areas on the grid. Something to do with the hospital, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think they’re gonna do the whole martial law thing, do ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure as hell hope not. I think the army’s here just to help people stay calm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, sure ain’t calming me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure everything will be just fine.” Joel heads off in search of the generator. One was required on site at all times. Placement, however, could turn into a game of hide-and-seek if he wasn’t specific with his workers about where to store it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes his way through the whole building, checking between the thicker beams set and marked for doors and entries, following a track of spray-painted instructions along the flooring. Slipping out the back door, he finds the generator beside it. With several sharp tugs, the generator roars to life. Some of the flood lights inside the more finished corners of the building flicker to life. Several power tools join the cacophony. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a small field in the back, forming a sort of unofficial public park between the backs of two neighborhoods and on the other side, another row of businesses. Joel’s already chased a few teenagers out of the construction zone. Lots of dog owners bring their mongrels into the open space to play fetch, and then get annoyed at the power tool sounds and leave again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel notices the dozer sitting back here too. “Hello beautiful,” he says appreciatively. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy’s been after him to do less of the grunt work on site, trying to coax him into working from home more in his office off the kitchen, mindin’ the phone and trying to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>marketing, </span>
  </em>
  <span>of all things. Joel thinks the work speaks for itself. Word of mouth goes a long ways. Besides! He likes the outdoors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel clambers up into the seat, and spends some time moving the pile of dirt away from the back of the house where it was piled from all the preliminary digs. Once it’s in the bucket, he drives over to the dump truck parked beside the site, facing the road. Takes about five trips to fill her up. After shutting down the engine, Joel dismounts the bulldozer and aims for the truck cabin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His pocket buzzes with a text message. He slides open a text from Tommy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tommy: On my way to the pick up. Stopped for gas</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel: We need to talk about this morning</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy: I’ll call you when I’m back</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy: Happy birthday by the way</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel sighs and closes out of the text messages, replacing it in his pocket. Running his own business was the hardest god-damn work he’d ever done. It was also the most rewarding. And hell, he was turning twenty-eight today. It was a weird cluster-fuck of anniversaries for a lot of shit. Today, a birthday. Tomorrow, his eighth-year anniversary of winning full custody of Sarah in court when he was only twenty years old. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Sarah? She’s twelve now. But he still remembers her pixie-like expressions, how terrified and innocent she was, at four years old when she arrived with her mother at the Austin city courthouse for the hearing. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Anniversary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Joel reflects on how he won custody for Sarah. An item is added to your inventory, revealing the entire backstory of what happened to Sarah's mother.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>updated content/trigger warning content added TO THE TAGS. please read carefully before perusing. </p><p>grammar &amp; spelling errors in Joel's journal entries are done on purpose. He's not writing to be fancy, he's taking notes that are deeply traumatic or reflective of high emotions and "not much carin' for the rules" but he's also not writing *in* dialect. Though occasionally, he might miss a G at at the end of "ing" here and there.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  <b>Cut Scene: Courtroom</b>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Eight Years Earlier </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the judge was announced, Joel and his lawyer stood quickly at their table. Joel’s tie felt too tight, his suit a stiff rental that smelled a little bit like bleach and mothballs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>September 27th 2005</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>He heard the words "</span><em><span>terminate all parental rights for Anna-Louise King" </span></em><span>and</span><em><span> "granting sole legal custody and</span></em> <em><span>full parenting time for Joel Miller". </span></em></p><p>
  <span>There was a hard whistling in his ears, like an old school air-raid bomb in a war movie. Sarah was his. Fully. Completely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Begging your pardon,” said the judge, “But I have a few words for the mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. This couldn’t be good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have nothing but the upmost pity for you,” the judge said, with absolute calmness. “But what matters more is I have an obligation as a man of the law, and a father myself, to finalize the decisions based on the evidence presented by the attorneys… but most of all, the evidence I see before me. This is as much a call of conscience as it is anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel’s eyebrows furrowed, glancing from the judge to Sarah’s mother. She sat at her own table, her blond straight hair slicked into a ponytail. She wore pumps and a skirt, and a blue blouse with marks and stains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a strict no-children policy in custody hearings,” said the judge, “And you were informed of this prior to this date. Coming in late to the hearing, towing your daughter, loudly shouting that you couldn’t find a sitter, reeking of alcohol–it made me ill, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel breathed quietly and briefly shut his eyes to a wash of pain thrudding through his chest. He had his suspicions that morning, but it became clear as the next two hours wore on, that Anna-Louise had either had a drink in front of Sarah prior to coming in, or worse, before she got into the car and drove them both here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And her belligerence throughout the hearing made it even more clear. She shouted at the judge, she had to be told to sit down multiple times, and even the security officer stepped forward and had a few words with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate to see any child separated from her mother,” the judge continued. “It’s not right. It ain’t how it’s s’posed to be. But for the safety of the child, this is how it </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was horrifying to watch. But Joel realized–with an unusual prayer of thanks aimed for the ceiling and a God he felt never listened but made an exception for him today–that her behaviors helped him win the entire case. By a landslide.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could hear your daughter screaming and crying in the hallway before this hearing started,” the judge went on, “While you managed to coax your mother into waiting outside with her. I watched you as you rolled your eyes and treated her coldly. I’ve been around this court for a long time, ma’am. I’ve seen it all. And I know when a young parent drags their child to a hearing–when they’re hungry, tired, and scared–to try and elicit an emotional reaction from the jury. Trying to show them how traumatized the child is when they’re separated from their mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anna-Louise glared at the judge, and looked over at Joel, her eyes black with fury. She couldn’t even begin to try and look sad. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel had a lot of unnecessary paperwork on the table, things he’d been asked to provide to his attorney that could somehow prove him the better parent. One, a schedule for Sarah. Doctor’s appointments, preschool, dentist appointments, playdates. Joel kept track of everything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And last–the most embarrassing of all, but a piece of evidence that his attorney told him to bring, just in case. Joel’s parenting journal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would allow up to two supervised visits per month with the presence of a social worker, more can be scheduled at the father’s discretion,” the judge said with finality, his jowls shaking with a deep breath. “Get yourself some help, ma’am. There’s resources and programs. Get clean. Get sober. Keep it up for one entire year. At the end of that year, contact your attorney and look into filing for a modification of parenting time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anna-Louise was making little scoffy sounds, making a big show of packing up her papers and stuffing into a briefcase and dropping a pencil onto the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Case dismissed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Joel felt the whistling in his ears again, shaking his attorney’s hand in a trance. He thought he heard him say </span>
  <em>
    <span>well done, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but everything was a blur. He just wanted his baby girl. He pushed through the audience–why the hell do these people show up for a public custody battle, anyway?–and opened the doors to see the sour-faced expression of his ex’s mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“DADDY!” squealed little Sarah, making a beeline for him, all blond pigtails and smelling like sour-patch candies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey baby girl,” he dropped to his knees and scooped her up, cuddling her close and spinning her around, listening to her glittering baby-cackle. She wasn’t so much a baby any more, was she? She was a toothy, school-photo vision of energy and an oddly specific taste in music for her age. She was having a Ziggy Marley and Bobby McFerrin phase.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m hungry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didja get breakfast this morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had granola in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joel frowned. “Y’want an early lunch? Whatcha in the mood for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Burgers,” said Tommy, appearing at his side. He clapped a hand to Joel’s shoulder, his eyes deep with the same sort of traumatic realizations hitting Joel hard in the last few minutes, but coping with normality. “I’m buyin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Tommy!” Sarah wriggled out of Joel’s arms to hug Tommy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How ‘bout some ice cream afterwards?” Tommy asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure sounds good to me,” Joel said, exhaustedly. “Sounds real good.” </span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>You now have Joel’s parenting journal in the artifact inventory. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>Item: Joel’s Journal</b>
</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It opens to this short entry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>June 10 2010</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Haven’t seen Anna-Louise in nearly five years now. Haven’t seen her since she walked outta that courthouse. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Flips back several pages… all the way to the beginning of the book. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>October 15 2001</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I gotta start keeping record and track of this shit cuz I ain’t got no other idea about what to do, except these things gotta be noted. And I don’t know what the fuck else to do about it.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Today Sarah cried in her crib. Right before i went in to fix the water heater in the garage, I said, “Sarah’s up from her nap” and got up to get her, but Anna-Louise told me, I’ll take care of her, you go fix the leak. I got this. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I was out there for damn near forty-five minutes but when I came back in, I could hear that Sarah was STILL crying in her crib</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I rushed in there and Anna-Louise is just sittin in the rocking chair, only a few feet away, watching her. But her eyes were unfocused like she was thinking, I ain’t doing shit.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I picked Sarah up and I told Anna-Louise that she needed a diaper change. And she probably needed it forty-five minutes ago when she first started crying. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I offered to do it,” I had said, “And you said you got it?? I wouldn’t have gone out there if you didn’t??”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise just said ‘i know’ and went on rocking in that damn rocking chair, back and forth, and didn’t say nothing else. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: Well? You said you’d take care of her. Why didn’t you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise said: “Gotta let them cry it out, it’s tough love.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I said: “Can you at least consult with me before you try some fucking new-fangled pseudoparent shit??” (Cuz I’m pretty damn sure letting a kid sit in a wet diaper for 45 minutes is NOT something that needs to be punished with tough love?? But fuck I’m only 20, what the hell do I know???)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is she some sort of god-damn psychopath? Did she seriously just sit in there watching our baby girl cry with a wet diaper?? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This isn’t the first time something weird like this has happened and that’s why I’m writing this shit down, because I forget the details. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>February 7 2003</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise has been acting sorta crazy. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I know she has a mean streak, I knew it when we got together. But young adult hi-jinks and an affinity for laughter and beer nights and parties really seems like a fun, winning personality. I was attracted to that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well shit I just wrote “was” and now I’m realizing how inevitable this is. And I know it’s gonna end badly. But the way I see it right now, s’long as neither of us are trying to kill each other, we should probably really just focus on sarah? Right? Sarah is 100% the most important thing here and if that baby girl needs both her parents, I’ll make this work. What would really change if we broke up, anyway? I’d still want Anna-Louise to live here if she’s obliged, so we can both raise Sarah together. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 2004</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise slept for six hours in the middle of the day today</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah had to feed herself with whatever she could reach from the lowest shelf in the fridge while I was at work</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I came home and Sarah told me what happened. She’s so god damn articulate for three years old. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She said: Daddy? Mommy sleeping all day. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: when?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah: well you were gone at work and mommy had a nap and then she woke up. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: She woke up to make you lunch right?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah: No she woke up right now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: She woke up when I got home from work? Just now?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(Sarah nodded here)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: So she was sleeping right after I left and slept all day? She was sleeping all day? She didn’t wake up?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah: No</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(I can barely see straight. Naw im seeing red. FUCK.)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: What… what didja do for lunch?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah: I opened da fridge and ate lunch</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Me: Can you show me how you did that?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah waddled over to the fridge, tugged on the handle to open it, and pulled out the drawer with sandwich fixings. She ate a heel of bread and nibbled on the cheese block and then was able to reach a juice box in the doorshelf. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I told her she did a really good job, but I’m gonna make her a nice big dinner cuz I don’t think bread and cheese would much cut it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>After she goes to sleep tonight, I’m reorganizing the fridge to make sure there ain’t nothin questionable in the lower shelves and drawers she can reach. And I’ll find all the kid-appropriate snacks and meals to put in the lower ones like yogurt and crackers and fruit slices. I’m distracting myself with another damn project right now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My kid didn’t get lunch while I was at work and I’m turning it into a grocery list</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Holy fuck, Anna-Louise? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But I can’t help but think about the fact that Sarah could be fucking choking on a baby carrot or some shit and Anna-Louise would sleep right through it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m. LIVID</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>December 25 2004</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise slept through most of christmas morning. I went ahead and had sarah open her gifts, telling her mommy was extra tired because she wanted to wait up for santa. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Truth is, I sorta thought we were reconnecting. Anna-Louise and I wrapped all of Sarah’s presents together, drank all night, laughed till we cried, and had sex for the first time in WEEKS. But she kept drinking. I thought we was all done for the night but she kept at it?? I woke up at 2 AM and found her black out drunk and STILL DRINKING in the bathroom. I took her bottle away and led her to bed and made sure she had some water. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But it don’t seem to do much good. She’s been drinking in the morning too. It used to just be a beer to wind down after work with dinner. Then she was having three. Then the whole six pack. Thought she quit buying em, and I didn’t much care, but then I found all the plastic rings in the recycling. She’s still buying six packs but she’s going through them herself every day. And then going to the store to get more. It’s just a lot. I feel like it’s too much. Normal people don’t drink 6 cans of beer a day, right? Especially having more than 2 drinks before going to work in the morning? That ain’t normal? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>January 3 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise fell down the stairs today. She said it was slippery, then she said she tripped on one of Sarah’s toys. I think she must think I’m pretty god fucking damn stupid</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She was drunk again. At home. Alone. While sarah’s in preschool and I’m workin</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise called in sick at work cuz she was on a binger</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve tried to suggest rehab… therapy… counseling… AA meetings??? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve even conceded to the idea of COUPLES THERAPY and all that mumbo jumbo. Worked for Phil and Kevin. They nearly split last summer. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She told me to fuck off </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>March 12 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy called me for a meeting today. I thought it was work related. I went in there and he sat me down all serious and asked me if I’ve been hitting Anna-Louise</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of COURSE I said NO?? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK? What gave you that idea??</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tommy said that Anna-Louise has been coming to our office whenever Tommy’s there and I’m on site somewhere. Showing him BRUISES and hinting that things are “rough” at home. You’d better believe they’re fucking rough?? Cuz she’s an alcohlic and won’t get no help for it?? I ain’t fucking HITTING HER. She’s drunk all the god-damn time and she falls and hits herself. On the head, arms, legs.... If it’s not the stairs, it’s the shower, it’s right off the toilet, it’s in the kitchen, the back steps. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She’s trying to manipulate Tommy. That’s what it’s come to. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>April 28 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I think Anna-Louise drove Sarah to pre-school intoxicated today, but I don’t have any proof. Got a call from the teacher, saying she’d been acting funny when she dropped Sarah off, and almost hit someone in the parking lot. By the time I could end my work and rush home, the effects had worn off. She seemed normal (whatever “normal” means right now) and said the teacher was getting real bitchy with sarah because she was “reading too fast for her age and level”??? So Anna-Louise claims she 1) told the teacher off, 2) sped a little going out of the parking lot but there were no people round at all. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I say… maybe bull shit </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 19 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise broke a glass in the kitchen today and didn’t clean it up. She left it in there. Sarah stepped on a shard in her bare feet when she came in looking for her favorite cup. Didn’t need stitches but sure as hell was close. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I yelled at Anna-Louise. I shouldn’t have. But here I am sitting there bandaging up Sarah’s goddamn bleeding foot and I got real fucking pissed. That’s a HURT baby girl right there. Jesus. I waited till Sarah was in bed before I yelled at Anna-Louise. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She said she forgot to clean up the glass. FORGOT. She dropped it, it shattered, and she turned around and left the room and then turned on the TV and was in there for the rest of the afternoon?? It doesn’t feel like she forgot. It feels like she got mad and decided to just not clean it up. Even though we got a seven-year-old runnin around all the time?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I found Sarah bleeding in her bedroom trying to put on her own Lego band-aid. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck it, Anna-Louise… you can tell every god-damn person in this world that I’m a wife-beater, I can take it… but this is the last time you get a get-outta-jail-free-card when it comes to my baby girl</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. I gotta call an attorney </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 21 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gotta appointment. Pursuing custody </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>May 22 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Found out what I want is full custody AND full parenting time. Didn’t know those were two different things. I told Anna-Louise how it’s gonna be. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She got so mad she punched a hole in the dry wall. Her hand is all fucked up but it ain’t broken</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I took her to the kitchen and held her hand and put ice on it while she cried and sobbed and begged me not to do this</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For a second, I thought MAYBE… maybe I shouldn’t?? She seems sorry????</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But this isn’t about me. It’s about Sarah. And she’s put Sarah in harms way more times than I’ve remembered to write down. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Flips pages forward, passing the court date. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>November 2 2005</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The easiest to prove in court was the dangers of her alcoholism so we leaned inta that. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve still wondered if there ain’t something else though. A personality disorder, maybe? I think about the crying in the crib thing. That was WAY before Anna-Louise started drinking</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m thinking the drinking is a symptom, not the root cause </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Anna-Louise’s entire argument for full custody of Sarah was founded on her maintaining sobriety and that I was emotionally abusive. She backtracked REAL quick on the physical abuse allegations early on. Especially when I told her that I knew she was sneaking over to Tommy to try and drive a wedge between us. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She dropped the act and the phrase “physical abuse” didn’t appear in any of her filings</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My attorney explained the emotional abuse allegations, reminding the court and the judge that a man having emotions was not the same as abuse. A crumbling relationship prone to disagreements is not the same as abuse. A man becoming angry because the mother of his child drove that child around town while under the influence is not emotional abuse. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My attorney decided to “validate” my anger, as opposed to pretending it never happened, which is what is usually recommended. But I didn’t wana lie. I wanted people to know I was angry. I knew that was a risk</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I AM angry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>December 24 2006</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Today I held Sarah while she cried for hours, asking where Mommy was. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My efforts to sugarcoat Mommy’s got a new job and she’s just so busy right now just won’t cut it anymore. Not during Christmas. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s been over a year now. Sarah’s going to grow up with some major abandonment issues. I know that. I’m gonna find us a child therapist and get Sarah signed up. I want her to have all the help she needs. I want her to be happy. But right now I just want her to be able to adjust in a healthy way and I don’t want to fuck this up for her. I gotta be a good dad. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Flipping pages again… moving quickly to the last few entries. Fast forward through the entries filled with pain and fear, and the last few entries are scattered–but happy. His reasons for keeping the journal are dwindling. What began as a form of survival, to make sense of Anna-Louise’s spiral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that–there was little reason to update the journal. But occasionally, he would note attempts to reach the mother, and when unsuccessful, inform the void that things were going really well. He’s a man alive and thriving and being the best dad he could possibly be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>July 4 2010</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thought maybe I could convince Anna-Louise to come see Sarah. Independence day is her favorite holiday. She loves the tailgate parties and fireworks and barbecue. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My calls are going to voicemail. My texts get “read” but she never replies. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I even tried her attorney! But the attorney isn’t on retainer any more and doesn’t know where she is. Dumb of me I guess, it’s been FIVE years. But it was worth a shot. Literally would prefer talking to anyone OTHER than Anna-Louise’s mother.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally did though. Bit the bullet and called her today. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mrs. King said that Anna-Louise moved to the northwest for a job: “She’s got a real nice situation in Redding.” And THEN she said: “Don’t you spoil this for her by tryin’ to track her down”??? What the fuck? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I asked why she wouldn’t wana see her own daughter. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mrs. King said: “You took her daughter away. Restore full parental rights and send Sarah to live with her in Redding if you wana do the right thing. You’re an ‘evil, crazy man’, Joel Miller, and if I hear one thing ‘bout you hurting my granddaughter, you bet your ass I’m gonna–”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that’s when I hung up. There was a lot more colorful words in there, but I got the basics down while it was still fresh in my memory. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am so tired. So god-damn tired. I’m not trying anymore. It ain’t worth it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>September 14 2010</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sarah’s got a soccer game tomorrow. 9 years old and already faster than all the other kids. I’m so fucking proud. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m taking time OFF to go to the game. I want to make sure Sarah knows she’s supported but most of all that she is WANTED. Her momma didn’t ever prioritise her feeling wanted. I need my kid to know that she is wanted, and loved, and according to this fancy ass parenting book i'm reading, “foster an environment for thriving, fighting hard for what they want as a support system, not an authoritarian figure to only enforce rules.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I fought hard for her. I’d ALWAYS fight for her. She’s my whole heart</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>August 4 2012</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Taking Sarah to the Halican Drops tour. She’s stoked. She fucking loves that band</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t care for the music personally but I fucking love making my kid happy. and she is happy. and safe. it's all i ever wanted for her. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
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